came another
despatch from Prince Ching and others--as these letters are now always
curiously signed, the lesser men hiding their identity in this
way--asking the Ministers once more to do something impossible; and once
more a despatch has gone back, saying that we are perfectly happy to
remain where we are, only we would like some vegetables and fruit....
And so, to-day, four cartloads of melons and cabbages have actually come
with the Empress Dowager's own compliments. The melons looked
beautifully red and ripe, and the cabbages of perfect green after this
drab-coloured life. But many people would not eat of this Imperial gift;
they feared being poisoned. More despatches from Europe have also been
transmitted--notably a cipher one to the French Minister, saying that
fifteen thousand French troops have left France. Evidently a change has
taken place somewhere.

But while these _pourparlers_ are proceeding, some of us are not at
all quieted. Fortification of the inner lines is going on harder than
ever. The entire British Legation has now walls of immense strength,
with miniature blockhouses at regular intervals, and a system of
trenches. If our advanced posts have to fall back they may be able to
hold this Legation for a few days in spite of the artillery fire.
French digging, in the form of very narrow and very deep cuts designed
to stop the enemy's possible mining, is being planned and carried out
everywhere, and soon the general asylum will be even more secure than
it has been since the beginning. Undoubtedly we are just marking
time--stamping audibly with our diplomatic feet to reassure
ourselves, and to show that we are still alive. For in spite of all
this apparent friendliness, which was heralded with such an outburst
of shaking hands and smiling faces, there have already been a number
of little acts of treachery along the lines, showing that the old
spirit lurks underneath just as strong.

In the Northern Hanlin posts which skirt the British Legation, a
black-faced Bannerman held up a green melon in one hand, and signalled
with the other to one of our men to advance and receive this gift. Our
man dropped his rifle, and was sliding a leg over his barricade, when
with a swish a bullet went through the folds of his shirt--the nearest
shave he had ever had. The volunteer dropped back to his side, and
then, after, a while, waved an empty tin in his hand as a notice that
he desired a resumption of friendly relation